


When You're Not Here, I'm Suffocating

by crescentmoonthemage



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Crescent Writes A Fic, Cute, M/M, You Have Been Warned, minor spoilers for spectre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5198978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescentmoonthemage/pseuds/crescentmoonthemage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't come as a slow thing, but rather a freight train, crashing BANG SMASH into Q's mind and speeding up his heartbeat and dominating his every thought. He hates himself for it and he hates Bond even more, he hates the man so much for changing Q's life, for making him eggs and for talking to him and watching him work and playing video games with him.</p>
<p>Bond's in Q's house because for him, it feels like home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You're Not Here, I'm Suffocating

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Synchronicity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/572931) by [stereobone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereobone/pseuds/stereobone). 



> Hello, lovelies! I saw Spectre and I really REALLY wanted to write this one shot, so I did. Loosely inspired by another 00Q fic, Synchronicity. Go read it! 
> 
> \--CM

****  
  


The morning after Bond leaves for good, the morning after C’s death and Blofeld’s imprisonment, M calls the Quartermaster’s apartment at 5:24 and tells him to take a day off. “We all need one,” says M, in his deep voice. “Catch up on sleep, Q.”

Three hours after that, at 8:31, Eve calls. “ M’s given us all a day. I’m coming over and we’re having a Doctor Who marathon. I’m bringing wine, but we’re not allowed to drink it until twelve.”

“Is this about Bond?” asks Q, suspicious. She answers far too quickly for it to be about anything else. “Of course not, dear. I’ll be over in fifteen.” Q makes a cup of tea and feeds his insistent cats. M’s thinking of having him adopt Blofeld’s cat while he’s in prison, but Q’s yet to meet the creature. If it were a human, he’d make it fill out a job application.

Eve shows up half an hour later, in a thick overcoat to ward away the winter chill. She’s carrying a Tesco bag and he takes it from her in the entryway. It contains a package of Q’s favorite chocolate, two bottles of expensive wine, and a box of Earl Grey. “This is about Bond,” he says. She gives him a sad smile. “Let’s get sloshed, Q.”

There’s an ache in Q’s chest when he realizes that in a few months time, he’ll have to build custom cars and pretty guns for another agent, he’ll have to direct another 007 on missions, he’ll have to trade snark with someone new, if the new James Bond is even snarky at all.

Scratch that. There could never be a _new_ James Bond, not while the real one is still drawing breath somewhere on a tropical beach with a little blond beauty. Q’s not jealous of her, not at all. Q knows she’s a better fit for Bond, she’s sunny days and white shirts and margaritas in Caribbean countries. Q’s just sweaters and tea and rainy London nights. He’s not jealous of her, because he knows Bond.

But the fact that Bond truly just _left_ without saying goodbye is a hole in Q’s heart. He goes to the kitchen and grabs one of the wine bottles and two glasses. It’s 11:47 and he’s breaking all of Eve’s rules about not drinking before noon but he really doesn’t care.

****  
  


\----

****  
  


A week later, Q is drinking tea when Bond comes back.  He comes down the car lift on a Saturday morning and Q wants to run away and hide. _A week ago, I was blackout drunk because of you._ “Bond?” he asks, heart hammering traitorously. “I thought you were gone.”

Bond looks at him, a small twinkle in his eye, a tiny smile on his face. “I am. I just had to get something first.” Q blinks, blinks, blinks again, taking a sip of tea to hide his roiling emotions. _Why can’t you leave me be?_ he wants to say. Instead, Q says: “What do you need?”  Bond grins something wicked, the kind of grin that makes Q attracted to him, the kind of seditious smirk that makes you know Bond would burn down a city block if his job depended on it.

Five minutes later, he’s gone. Q’s alone in the lab, and suddenly everything seems so cramped and the world seems too small. He takes a breath and it’s hitched, a sob caught somewhere above his heart, stuck right where his red tie is knotted at his throat. He calls Eve. She doesn’t pick up, and when he tries to leave a message his voice comes out as a croak. “God dammit!” he shouts, slamming his palm into the desk and upsetting his mug of tea, which runs onto the floor. He sinks to the ground behind his desk and rips his glasses off, scrubbing at his eyes with a frantic hand. “God dammit,” he says, again, but it comes out sounding lachrymose, as if he’s another one of 007’s girls waiting for him to come home.

He’s well aware that moping isn’t productive, so he allows himself only five minutes, then gets off the floor and cleans up the spilled tea. He makes another cup, sits down at his desk, and works until three A:M.

\---

The postcard shows up in Q’s mailbox four days later. It’s one of those cheesy ones, the ones that say _Wish You Were Here_ , with a picture of a palm tree. It’s from Fiji, and there’s no note on the back, just a shabby pen drawing of an Aston Martin. He stares at it as if it could somehow explode on him.  The scary thing is, Q never gave Bond his address, and there’s no stamp on the tiny slip of paper. This means Bond was _at his house_. Or at least, someone was.

****  
  


New Message To:

Eve Moneypenny

From:

Q

_8:24 AM: WTF_

__****  
  


Message from:

Eve Moneypenny

To:

Q

**8:26: What, Q?**

****  
  


_8:27: BOND JUST SENT ME A POSTCARD_

__****  
  


_8:27: I HATE HIM SO MUCH_

__****  
  


**8:29: What?**

****  
  


_8:30: Eve, he sent me a postcard from Fiji. I want to kill him._

__****  
  


**8:47: I don’t blame you, dear.**

****  
  


Eventually, Q puts the postcard in an old shoe box and shoves it under his bed. He considers burning it with a lighter, but he puts it away before he has a chance to. He’s really in the mood to kill James Bond, so he plays Call of Duty on his X-Box until the afternoon.

****  
  


\----

No more postcards come.

A few weeks later, Q meets a computer tech from Kingsman for dinner. They go out to some soup shop and drink a bottle of Zinfandel together. The man’s nice, with fluffy ginger hair and a love of classical piano. He talks in language that Q understands, and when he kisses Q, his breath tastes of apples. It’s nice, really. Comforting.

Q never calls him again.

\----

Exactly twenty-three days after James Bond left with the Aston Martin, Q’s on the Tube ride home from MI6 when his phone buzzes in his pocket, three buzzes. Emergency.  He glances at the Tube map before pulling his phone out: he’s still got three stops.

Someone had broken into Q’s apartment.

The emergency buzzing was Q’s first line of defense. He had three. The first was a message to his phone. If Q didn’t pull his phone out within a minute, Q’s security system was programmed to call the police. On a dare from Moneypenny a few months ago, he had hacked the CCTV cam outside his front door to point at his apartment.  One swift motion had his laptop out. He pulled up the footage, his front door was locked and closed. _Windows_? His finger hovered over the button to move to the camera hidden camera installed in his entryway, but something made him stop. It took him about thirty seconds to hack into the CCTV camera again and move it about to face down the street.  He slammed his laptop closed in shock, a shriek bubbling hysterically up in his throat. Parked just out of sight of where the camera was pointed before was a shiny silver Aston Martin.

Fingers shaking, he dug out his phone once more and dialed a number. James Bond picked up on the second ring, with a “Q?”

He sounded as if he was about to say something more, but Q stopped him, hurried words coming out in a jumble. “What the hell are you doing in my house, 007?”

“How did you know?” asks Bond.

“I’m the bloody Quartermaster, you idiot. I have cameras. And you parked your bloody car where anyone can see it.”

He thinks he hears Bond’s huffed sigh, but he can’t be sure. “Your cats are hungry, Q. And the white one’s very affectionate.”

“Tchaikovsky’s _my_ cat, you can’t have her.”

“Classical music much?” Q hears the smirk, and he almost smiles, almost, before he says: “Also, Fall out Boy. Now, either get out of my house  in five minutes time, or I’ll call M. I’m coming home, and most of me doesn’t want to find you there when I get back.”

“I missed you.”

It’s these three words that give Q pause, because those were the three words he had wished to hear and dreaded, the three words that build him up and break him down at the same time. “Fine,” he says, curt, and though he hears Bond breathing in to say something else, he hangs up the phone before anything regrettable happens. Suddenly, tears are sparking behind his lashes, and he gently breathes an expletive that makes the woman next to him shoot him a dirty glare. He leans his head back against the window, grimacing. When his stop comes, he has half a mind to keep on going, until his train is at the last station. _Get off the bloody train, Q._

He gets off the bloody train.

It’s snowing outside and day is turning into evening. It’s a short walk to Q’s flat, and he hurries. The Aston’s still sitting outside, and there’s cozy living room lights on inside his house. He takes a very deep breath before walking up the steps and unlocking the door. Inside, Tchaikovsky and Beethoven twine round his legs, meowing impatiently. He takes his coat off, tosses his shoes in the corner and strokes his cats, before slowly, ever so slowly, walking into the living room. Just as he feared (loved? hated?) Bond was sitting on his couch with a glass of scotch in hand, languid as a feline. Q gives him a dirty glance. “I was saving that for a special occasion,” he says, before he realizes that Bond is covered in blood and the suit he’s wearing is torn and tattered. “What happened?” he asks, walking over to Bond. “Where’s Swann?”

“She’s dead,” says 007, deadpan. “She died in a firefight three days ago. I tracked the man back to London and killed them earlier today. Fortunately, my car’s no worse for the wear. Unfortunately, I am.”

“You don’t seem too torn up about her,” Q comments idly. “I thought you loved her.”

“I met her two months ago. She was just a part of the mission.”

“I thought you married her,” replies Q, all too quickly, and in his brain he’s going _shit, shit, SHIT._

“I did,” says Bond, cooly, and offers nothing more on the matter. Suddenly, Q notices the arm Bond is holding against his side. “You’ve been shot!” he cries, kneeling in front of Bond and gently peeling 007’s hand from his side. “Nice of you to notice,” grimaces Bond, gripping Q’s hand tightly and getting blood on the bottom of Q’s sleeve. Something in the back of Q’s mind dimly registers: _We’re holding hands,_ but he tamps that part of him down and pulls out the Quartermaster instead.

“You need to go to Medical,” says Q, urgently. Bond laughs a rough laugh. “They’re not going to be here at this time.”

“Do you want me to pull the bullet out myself?” asks Q, incredulous. Bond nods, which surprises him. “I trust you more than most, Q.” Q considers this for a moment, before standing up briskly. He gives Bond’s hand a squeeze before letting it go. “Lie down on my kitchen table. That’ll have to do.”

Bond does as ordered and when Q runs to his bathroom to retrieve the emergency medical kit under his sink, he come back to find Bond, lying shirtless on his kitchen table. A few incriminating thoughts rush through his head and he hopes he’s not blushing. He examines the bullet wound in Bond’s side, before pulling on a pair of latex gloves and brandishing a pair of small tweezers. “This will hurt,” he warns. “You’ll probably pass out.”  
  


“I have a very high pain tolerance.” says 007, but that doesn’t stop his scream and Q digs the bullet out of his side.

Thirty minutes, one high-grade bullet, and one shabby stitch job later, Q sits back and takes a deep breath. Bond’s on his back, eyes closed. Just as Q had predicted, after only a few minutes, Bond had fallen unconscious. That made Q’s job much easier, because 007 completely still was easier to stitch up.

Night had fallen, and Q considers calling Moneypenny to call her about the strange situation, but he decides against it. It’s still snowing, and Q’s cold, so he makes another pot of tea. As an afterthought, he covers Bond in a blanket. It’s one of Q’s favorites, with a map of Westeros printed on it. He takes his Scrabble mug and sits at the table beside Bond to do some coding.

Q doesn’t remember dreaming until he’s waking up, cup of tea gone cold beside him, laptop asleep. The blanket’s over his shoulders now, but Bond’s nowhere in sight. There’s a note sitting on the table where he had been, though. Three words, written in Bond’s cramped and slanted hand.

_I wasn’t here._

__****  
  


When Q goes to the window and finds the Aston gone from the street below, tire tracks the only mark in the freshly fallen snow, a strange feeling worms through his breast, an unexpected mix of utter despair and new hope. James Bond trusts me. Q puts the note in the box under his bed.

****  
  


\----

****  
  


On Monday, Bond is all the buzz. He can hear his minions whispering about it all morning until Tanner comes in around eleven and gives him the official memo. “Did you hear?” he asks, conversationally. “Bond’s back.”

Q feigns surprise. “Really? I thought he was retired.”

“As did we all, Q,” replies Tanner. “He’s in Medical now. Someone gave him a really bad stitch job after a bullet wound.” Q pretends not to notice, saying nothing. “I’m sending him to you later today,” continues Tanner. “M wants the SmartBlood program reinstated, now that C’s not around to spy on us. I’m here to give you Bond’s next mission briefing, so you know what he’ll need. He’s scheduled to be on active duty in a week.”

Bond’s apparently being stationed in Sweden, on mission to track the movements of a terrorist organization. It’s not stated to be a very dangerous mission, and so Q’s sure Bond can get by with only a gun. Q’s also sure that Bond will get some more gadgets as well, perhaps a small rocket launcher.

Bond comes by later with Tanner, looking smug as ever, and when he sees Q he smiles brightly, a smile that makes Q’s insides melt and his brain tell him _no no no no no_ _no no._ “Hello, 007,” he says, looking up from the gun he’d been tinkering on. “Heard you got shot. How’s the bullet wound?”

“Well,” 007 replies. “It’s healing. Nice of you to ask.”

Tanner’s still in the room, as are the minions, so Q can’t throw his strange opinions about the night before into conversation. Instead, he asks: “I’m guessing the car’s destroyed,” even though he knows it’s not. 007 gives him a knowing smile. “It’s parked right outside. I’ll bring it down the lift after we’re done here.”

Q fakes surprise. “I do believe I’ve just won some money,” he says. Tanner’s still standing there awkwardly, and Q gives him permission to report back to M. “I can handle Bond on my own. I’m just informing him about the new SmartBlood protocol.” Tanner nods and leaves promptly. Q leads Bond into a different room reserved for monitoring and shuts the door. He tells Bond to sit down.

Bond sits down.

“What happened on Saturday night?” Q asks, all of a sudden. Bond raises one blond eyebrow. “Didn’t you get the note?” It takes Q a moment to remember the note stored under his bed. “Right. Of course. Now, about the SmartBlood...” It takes all of three minutes before Q says, quietly: “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“Neither did I,” replies Bond, in a strange tone of voice.

“I’m glad you’re back,” says the Quartermaster next, almost a whisper.

\----

When Bond strolls in five days later, Q gives him a gun, a radio, an exploding watch, and sunglasses that use facial recognition to identify possible threats. The Aston Martin’s waiting in the airport in Sweden. Of course, 007 really doesn’t really need any of these things, but Q is hopeless and he wants Bond to smile.

\-----

Bond keeps in contact until he’s on the plane ride home, at which point Q finally allows him to turn off the earpiece. It was nice, really. Despite from Q giving Bond directions and the like, they had traded banter like they had been doing it forever. Q feels very much at home when he talks to James, the words flow easily. This fact, however, disturbs him immensely. Q is altogether too aware of the fact that normal people don’t feel at home when talking to a hitman over wireless radio at one A:M and hacking a secure government data file at the same time. He mulls over this fact on the Tube ride home at five-thirty but forgets it entirely when he’s about to go to bed and 007 comes in through his bedroom window.

“Hello,” offers James, by way of conversation. _Are we really doing this?_ thinks Q, and then says: “How was the plane ride?” because yes, they are. It’s all rather queer, the fact that Q’s standing  by the closet, half in pajamas and half not, and _James Bloody Bond_ is leaning through the window above his bed.  Q is suddenly glad that he hadn’t been in the middle of taking his shirt off when Bond appeared.The man in question makes a shoulder motion that clearly means: so-so, and then asks: “Do you have anything to drink?”

Q thinks for a moment. “Five types of tea and some milk that’s probably gone off. Although I’m out of Earl Grey,” he offers. Bond sighs an explosive sigh. “Hang on,” Bond says, and then vanishes back out the window, shutting it neatly behind him to ward away the chill. Q’s much too shocked to do anything but stand, frozen in place, for a minute or so. Finally, he changes into a pajama shirt (faded, with a Dalek on it) and sits down on his bed. _Did I just hallucinate?_ he wonders. Finally, after a few minutes, he climbs into bed and turns the light off.

Bond comes back through the window ten minutes later, clutching a Tesco bag. He drops it unceremoniously on Q’s bed, where it knocks off Beethoven and settles heavily between Q’s legs.  The Quartermaster steadfastly refuses to sit up or turn the lights on, and so Bond, looking thoroughly put out, is forced to turn the lights on and see Q lying in bed, blankets pulled around his neck. “What are you doing?” asks Bond, standing menacingly by the bed.

Q peers at Bond through his glasses. “I was going to bed. Normal people do that, you know.”

Bond snorts. “Like you can talk. You haven’t slept a full night in how long? Three weeks?”

“Four,” replies Q smoothly, sliding out of bed. “If you’re going to stay, you should at least agree to make me a pot of tea.”

Bond picks up the Tesco bag and rifles through it. He pulls out a box of Twinings Earl Grey and throws it at Q, who catches it easily. “What else is in that bag?” he wonders. Bond smirks before pulling out a bottle of very expensive scotch and a container of Q’s favorite ice cream. Q picks up the ice cream, staring at it in an effort not to look at 007. “How did you know what kind of ice cream I liked?” he asks, hopelessly, finally.

Bond shrugs. “I asked Eve at some point, I’m sure.” He looks altogether too pleased with himself and this fact makes Q very confused and very angry. “Why are you here?”

Bond makes a strange facial expression. “I finished the job.”

Q opens his mouth to make a biting remark, but is suddenly reminded of something the last M had said to him, before the Skyfall crisis and before Q’s life had been uprooted. She’d been giving him a job overview. “Many of the double-ohs are very nice, Q,” she said. “Except for 007. God knows we need him, and maybe that’s why he’s such a dick. He’s broken into my house before, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find him there one of these nights.”

“Why don’t you report him for breaking and entering?” asked Q. M smiled like a wolf. “He trusts me, strangely enough. That’s why he does it. Plus, if I did, the jail paperwork would be horrendous.”

That’s when Q suddenly realizes. Bond’s in his house because it feels like home. Bond needs someone else to trust, and the Quartermaster feels a sudden rush of heat as he realizes that he of all people has the complete trust of one of the most dangerous assassins in the world.

“I have a spare bedroom,” Q says, suddenly. “Are you going to report back to M tomorrow?”

Bond smirks. “On Sunday?”

Bond gathers the ice cream and the tea and deposits them back into the shopping bag, before leaving the room. Just before he shuts the door, Q barely hears him say: “Sleep well, Q,” before he closes the door and Q falls into sleep.

\----

When Q wakes at two P:M the next day, he’s very shocked to find Bond cooking in his kitchen. “Afternoon, Q,” he says, jovially, and goes back to stirring whatever he’s stirring. It looks like the beginnings of scrambled eggs. He sits down at the table, feeling overwhelmed by all of the information that’s rushing in. _James Bond is in my house. James Bond is still in my house. James Bond is making eggs in my kitchen._

Bond puts a cup of tea in front of him, which bemuses Q utterly. He takes a sip, and it’s good, which is surprising. Bond apparently figured out that Q drinks his tea black, which is comforting and also a bit disturbing.

Q helps make toast, and so they eat eggs and toast while watching some documentary on the telly. When it’s done, Bond takes the plates and washes them and Q gets out his laptop to finish re-coding the seventh level of the MI6 firewall. It’s all rather domestic, really, which puts a strange twist in Q’s gut.

\----

Bond’s out on another mission in Sudan within the week. He leaves with three expensive handguns, a sniper rifle with palm-coding, a radio, an exploding watch, and a small rotating saw concealed in the toe of his shoe. He looks very pleased when Q gives these to him, like it’s Christmas. “It’s classified as an exceptionally dangerous mission, 007,” he says. Still, Bond looks terribly smug and when he leaves, he takes both of Q’s hands and squeezes them, quickly, before walking away.

Q’s not freaking out, no, but he does more work than he should and almost gives 004’s mission assignment to 005. His heart’s also beating faster than normal and he thinks it’s just how much tea he’s had, but it slows down as soon as 007 comes on the radio and he’s not sure what to make of that.

When Q hears the gunshot, hears Bond say that he’ll be back in six hours, Q tells him that the front door will be unlocked. He then goes home at a normal hour, frightening most of his techs, and purchases two bottles of Merlot on the way home, frightening himself. When he’s home, he tries working and then discovers he doesn’t feel like it. He resorts to ordering Chinese takeout and playing Skyrim on his X-Box. Six hours later, Bond walks in through the front door, dried blood in his hair and with a horribly ripped coat. “I’m sad it’s a weekday. M will want me to report tomorrow.”

“Take your shoes off before walking on the carpet,” Q replies, not looking up from the screen. He was in the middle of killing a troll with his double-bladed axe. Bond waits, and when Q finishes killing the troll, he pauses and looks up at Bond. “How was the mission?” asks Q.

“Do you have any multiplayer games?” asks Bond.

The morning finds them, one bottle of wine later, racing on Forza. Q’s in some fast little red thing and Bond’s in a black Camaro, and Q’s winning. He pretends not to be satisfied at the expression on Bond’s fact, but who is he kidding? Finally, when Q’s morning alarm rings, he turns the game off and goes to change into work clothes.

When he comes back out, Bond’s gone.

\----

Finally, Q knows to expect Bond after a mission. Two weeks, three weeks, four weeks will go by of Bond killing and Q directing, and then Bond will turn up at Q’s house and Bond will make food and Q will work. It’s like they’re never apart, which is nice but also rather frightening.

On the sixth time 007 comes to stay, Q realizes he’s in love with him.

It doesn’t come as a slow thing, but rather a freight train, crashing BLAM SMASH into Q’s mind and speeding up his heartbeat and dominating his every thought. He hates himself for it and he hates Bond even _more_ , he hates the man so much for changing Q’s life, for making him eggs and for talking to him and watching him work and playing video games with him.

On the seventh time, Q can’t look him properly in the eye because he’s imagining unspeakable things.

On the eighth time, Q can’t look him properly in the eye because he knows how wrong he is to be in love with the one thing he can’t have.   
  


On the ninth time 007 comes to stay, Q can’t take it any more.  

After Bond walks in the door, bearing Chinese food and a bag of cat food for Beethoven and Tchaikovsky, he steps over to Q, sitting on the couch. Q’s heart slams once, twice, and then stops. He stands, takes a deep breath and it all comes out.

“You can’t come over any more because I’m in love with you and I’ve been in love with you for a long time and now I can’t do my job because I can’t look you in the eye and this is all not very professional and I’m sorry but you have to go.”

Bond looks hurt for a moment. He sets the Chinese food on the ground and takes a tiny step forward. Q gulps, looking down. He feels very small. “Q,” says Bond, quietly. Q glances up to see Bond looking at him with a strange expression on his face. “I’m sorry,” replies Q, even quieter. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” says Bond, tilting Q’s chin up with one graceful hand. Q’s heart, which had been still for the last few minutes, suddenly gave one frantic beat. The hand under Q’s chin moves to his neck, fingers splayed from shoulder to jaw.

_Kisses_ , remarks Q later, _aren’t supposed to burn_. But this one does, burns from Q’s mouth to the bottom of his spine, it burns and he burns and it’s all so wonderful.

**  
**James Bond stays the entire weekend.


End file.
